


Deliciously In Love

by lenin_it_to_win_it



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (and im mostly not talking about crowley), Other, also im not certain ive spelled aziraphale right but such is life, aziraphale protecc he attacc but most importantly, but like i thought it was a thing that they like didnt have genders?, he enjoy him snacc, i promise it ends happily for all involved though, i wasnt sure about parts of the tagging bc like, ive only seen 2 episodes so im not sure, ive seen most crowley/aziraphale fics tagged m/m, so i went with other but idk, this fic includes food/eating and mentions of weight gain so it could be triggering for some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-09 03:10:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19880644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lenin_it_to_win_it/pseuds/lenin_it_to_win_it
Summary: Aziraphale loves eating- perhaps a bit more than he should. An angel enjoying human food is both uncommon and improper, though not nearly as improper as having an intimate relationship with a demon. Aziraphale struggles between duty and happiness, between the heavenly ideals of right and wrong and his own, and a conversation with Crowley could swing the balance.





	Deliciously In Love

**Author's Note:**

> aziraphale, whomst doesnt actually need to eat to survive: *eats food anyway because he enjoys it*me: fucking superb you funky little angel
> 
> ive only seen two episodes of good omens so whomst knows if any of this accurate or in character, all i know is that aziraphale owns all my ooh woohs and i would die for him

Aziraphale loved everything— well, almost everything. Even angels had their imperfections, and there were certain things that were so hard to love. Like that loud, awful, 20th-century music Crowley seemed to enjoy, for instance.

  
“What’s wrong with some nice, calming harpsichord music now and then? Or lyres? Why don’t humans ever play the lyre anymore?” Aziraphale protested, raising his voice in an attempt to be heard over the pounding music. “What is this called, anyway?” 

Crowley grinned. “It’s the Thomas the Tank Engine theme. Bass boosted.” 

Aziraphale shuddered. If this was the sort of music humans voluntarily subjected themselves to on Earth, he could only imagine the shrieking din of Hell. 

There were a few other Earthly things Aziraphale had tried to love but couldn’t quite get used to, including denim jeans, box wine, and that one stair in his bookshop that jutted out just _slightly_ further than the rest and seemed purposefully designed to make everyone stub their toes on the way up. 

Barring a few exceptions— and, actually, Aziraphale could even reconcile himself to the stair in certain moods, since it reminded him of Crowley— Aziraphale was very happy on Earth. Love was in his nature, and finding joy came to him easily, even in circumstances where another, less beatific angel might have struggled. 

All angels were willing to corporate when necessary, and most did so without complaint. Even so, it would have been an exaggeration to claim that they enjoyed doing it, or that their corporations brought them any real pleasure. Aziraphale was the exception. 

Aziraphale’s corporation made him smile whenever he caught sight of it in the mirror. It might not have been particularly handsome by human standards, but it looked approachable and kind, warm and lived-in, like a comfortable old couch by a fireplace. He enjoyed being able to feel things the way humans did— real, tangible fabric against skin, warm water and soothing smells during bathtime, and the casual contact they made with one another in the course of their everyday lives. 

And eating. Aziraphale _loved_ food. He loved the excitement of venturing into strange restaurants in search of new favorites, the calm comfort of snacking on biscuits and cocoa in his cozy bookshop while reading by lamplight, the fun of drinking wine with Crowley and trying to convince him to try some grapes or a bit of cheese as well. 

Aziraphale had a special weakness for sweets and pastries, which Crowley loved to tease him for. Still, Aziraphale couldn’t help but admit that he had brought it on himself by nearly getting discorporated during the French Revolution over some crepes.

Once, on the first of April, someone had rung Aziraphale’s doorbell, but, by the time he had made his way through the shop to open the door, no one was there. Just as Aziraphale was about to conclude that he had been victimized by Crowley’s penchant for ding-dong ditching yet again, he saw a lone tin of peanut brittle on the ground. Curious, he picked it up and found a note taped to it reading, “For Aziraphale”. Just as Aziraphale opened the tin, a improbably massive snake sprung out and coiled around him, hissing with laughter. 

“Crowley, you get off of me this instant!” Aziraphale protested, trying to sound stern. Crowley continued to squirm around him in a serpentine embrace, and his tongue lashed out against Aziraphale’s cheek. Aziraphale willed himself not to blush. “Now, you know I don’t appreciate being bamboozled or lied to. I won’t forgive you until you apologize!” 

Crowley changed into his human form and unwound himself from Aziraphale “You’re right, angel. I’m sorry, so terribly sorry that I have tormented you like this. How can you ever forgive me for my sins?” 

Aziraphale sighed. “You’re not sorry at all, are you?” 

“Not anymore than you’re actually upset.” 

In spite of himself, Aziraphale smiled. “I am a little upset, you know. I _do_ love peanut brittle.” 

“How about I make it up to you?” Crowley suggested with a wicked grin. “There’s a sweet shop not far from here. It’d be no trouble at all to rob the place—”

“No! No stealing!” Aziraphale interjected. “If you really want to make it up to me, come inside before you can get into any trouble,” he said, holding the door open for Crowley. “I don’t have any peanut brittle, thanks to your tricks, but I’m sure I could find something you’d like.”

  
“Got any wine?”  
  
“It’s eight in the morning, Crowley. Of _course_ I have wine.” 

After the peanut brittle incident, Crowley made a point of bringing something sweet for Aziraphale whenever he happened to visit. Of course, there was always a catch.

  
“I dropped these on the ground, on purpose,” Crowley would say, nudging a box of chocolates acrosss the floor with his shoe. “Enjoy.” 

“There’s twenty-four biscuits in here, but I licked one of them. It’s my secret ingredient.” 

“The filling? Well, it’s either chocolate cream or spiders. You know how I always get the two mixed up.”

In spite of Crowley’s little tricks, Aziraphale was never able to resist his sweet offerings, including eclairs that really did contain candied spiders as well as chocolate cream. They were actually quite delicious, and the spiders added a nice crunch. 

“Haven’t you got any willpower, angel?” Crowley would tease as he watched Aziraphale dig into his treat with a little sigh of happiness. “Too bad there wasn’t a crepe tree in Eden— I wouldn’t have had to do anything.” 

Eventually, Crowley’s frequent visits and Aziraphale’s even more frequent eating started to have an effect on his corporation. It was hard to tell at first, since his corporation had always been a bit soft around the middle, but it seemed to be getting. . . squishier. 

Aziraphale rather liked the new weight at first. After all, it was ‘more to love’, as the humans said. Sometimes, Aziraphale would catch himself patting or rubbing his stomach, especially if he had been thinking about food, and he would distractedly note that it felt nice and soft to the touch. He did begin to fret a little when his clothes started to get tighter. He had taken such care of them for over a century; it would be a shame to have to replace them. Still, they could be tailored and, if necessary, miracled, so it was hardly the end of the world. 

Aziraphale found his opinion shifting after a visit from Gabriel. Even during the best of times, conversing with Gabriel was rarely pleasant, but Aziraphale made an effort to stay positive. 

  
“Gabriel, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked cordially. Aziraphale almost extended a hand to shake out of habit, but he realized it would have been a foolish gesture. Gabriel only observed human cultural practices when strictly necessary. Instead, Aziraphale swung his hands loosely at his sides for a moment before tugging on the edge of his waistcoat simply to give his hands something to do. 

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, zeroing in on Aziraphale’s stomach. “What’s wrong with your corporation?” His tone was wary, possibly concerned, and more than slightly displeased. 

“My— what’s wrong?” Aziraphale stammered. For a moment, he was confused, then he realized what Gabriel meant. An embarrassed, guilty flush crept across Aziraphale’s cheeks. “Oh, that. Well, I— I suppose have been eating. . . perhaps a bit more than I should, on occasion.” 

“You don’t _have_ to eat at all.”  
  
“Sometimes, I do!” Aziraphale protested in nervous self-defense. “When there are other humans around. Sometimes, I end up in social situations where food is involved, you see, and it would be considered strange or improper not to eat.” 

Gabriel glanced over at Aziraphale’s desk, where a hot mug of cocoa sat steaming next to an open book, and raised an eyebrow. “And one of those social situations includes. . . sitting by yourself?”

Aziraphale would have almost prefered discorporating to withstanding another second of Gabriel’s disproving stare. “I’m sure you didn’t come all this way to discuss my corporation,” he said quietly, avoiding Gabriel’s eyes. “I wouldn’t want to waste any more of your time.” 

Gabriel, as it turned out, had plenty to say— none of it pleasant— and Aziraphale tried to listen. He really only latched onto the conversation at the very end, when it sounded like Gabriel was preparing to leave. Aziraphale perked up hopefully, preparing to say goodbye, but Gabriel wasn’t finished yet. 

“—and you need to take better care of your corporation, Aziraphale,” he said with a meaningful glance at Aziraphale’s stomach. “Instead of sullying it with unnecessary human. . . objects. Gluttony _is_ a sin, you know.” Before Aziraphale could think of a suitable response, Gabriel left. 

_A sin_. Just thinking those words made Aziraphale sick with fear. Had he really fallen into sin just by enjoying a few snacks now and then? Of course, temptation always did come gradually. . . Aziraphale’s hand went to his stomach, and instead of appreciating its softness, he wondered if it was a visual signal of his spiritual weakness, of how far he had fallen from God’s graces.

Aziraphale was sitting at his desk in a state of fearful contemplation, not reading or drinking his cocoa, which had long since gone cold, when the sound of shattered glass caught his attention. Aziraphale’s first thought was that his store was being robbed, but then he heard a familiar voice.  
  
“Hey, angel.”  
  
Aziraphale sighed, relieved. “Hello, Crowley.” He tried to find the energy to be indignant. “You didn’t have to go and shatter a perfectly good window to get in here. I would have opened the door for you, had you rang the bell.”  
  
“Where’s the fun in that?” Crowley grinned, and Aziraphale managed a weak smile in return. Crowley frowned. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened,” said Aziraphale far too quickly. “Why would you think something happened?” 

“You’re a terrible liar, you know.” 

Aziraphale lowered his head; he did know. “It _is_ nothing,” he insisted, sucking in his stomach. “Nothing important, anyway. Nothing serious.”

  
Crowley started balling his hands into fists, and his expression darkened. “If it upset you, then I think it’s pretty damned important. Why won’t you tell me?”  


Aziraphale winced at the sharpness of Crowley’s voice. “It has nothing to do with you,” he said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Please,” he added in a gentler tone. “I don’t want you to be upset with me.”  
  
Crowley’s expression softened slightly. “Angel.” He put a hand on Aziraphale’s cheek, and it was all Aziraphale could do not to start crying. More than anything, he just wanted to be held and comforted by his dearest friend. Even if he was a weak sinner and a disgrace of an angel who had fallen to temptation, Crowley, at least, would still care for him. Aziraphale didn’t say any of this, but he did sink into Crowley’s touch with a tremulous sigh. 

Just as Aziraphale could sense love, Crowley could sense pain. Demons were inexorably drawn to physical, mental, or emotional torment, weaknesses they could easily exploit to their advantage. Usually, Crowley enjoyed a good bit of misery—suffering and anguish gave him a pleasant buzz, similar to the feeling he got after a few glasses of alcohol— but Aziraphale’s pain _hurt_. Crowley imagined getting his insides scooped out with a flaming sword would hurt less, though that was not something he imagined frequently. Not nearly as often as he imagined himself finding and eviscerating the most recent cause of Aziraphale’s unhappiness. 

“I’m livid,” said Crowley. “But not at you.” 

He held out his arms, the gesture stiff and awkward from lack of practice, but Aziraphale fell into them without hesitation. Crowley bit his tongue so hard it bled to stifle a very un-demonic gasp of surprise. A thrill of nervousness run through him as he began to gently run a hand over Aziraphale’s curls— carefully, as one would touch something delicate and unutterably precious. It was not in Crowley’s nature to be gentle, or reassuring, or kind, but, with Aziraphale in his arms, overcoming his nature felt more than worth the effort. 

Eventually, Crowley pulled away, scowling. “Better now?” he asked, affecting a tone that implied he did not much care, though of course Aziraphale would be able to sense that he did. 

Aziraphale’s soft, kind eyes took in Crowley’s face behind a watery veil. “Thank you.” 

  
“Well, don’t get used to it,” Crowley groused, brushing off his jacket. “Sentimentality makes my skin crawl. I can feel a rash coming on already.” 

Aziraphale laughed, and Crowley could feel himself smile for a moment before he had a chance to mold his expression into something less vulnerable. “We’ll see who’s laughing when you see what I’ve brought you this time,” said Crowley, clambering back through the broken window to pick up a box he had left in the alley. A rat had started gnawing at the cardboard, but Crowley kicked it away before Aziraphale noticed. “Strawberry shortcake,” he annouced proudly, handing the only partially defiled bakery box to Aziraphale. “Strawberries are in season, and if these particular strawberries happen to have been harvested from a bush growing off a rotting corpse, all the better. The macabre always adds a certain spice.” 

“Oh. . .” Aziraphale started to smile, but couldn’t quite keep his mouth in place. He stared at the ground, face burning. “Thank you, but I— I really shouldn’t. I’m trying to— to eat a bit less now, you see.” 

“But you love eating.” 

Aziraphale sighed. He hadn’t expected Crowley to understand. The pursuit of hedonistic, self-serving pleasure was hardly something demons were censured for. “Yes, well, my personal happiness is insignificant, in the grand scheme of things.”

“I hate it when you get like this.” Crowley’s voice was quiet but harsh. “When you act like you don’t matter.”  
  
“We all matter,” said Aziraphale, a bit confused by Crowley’s sudden anger. “We all exist for a reason, and I’m no exception. But we matter because we have a purpose, and my purpose isn’t to exist aimlessly, doing things for no other reason than my own happiness.” 

“Why not?”

“Because it’s not that simple!” Aziraphale was starting to get frustrated. “I don’t get to choose. None of us do. The Almighty tells us—”

“ _The Almighty_ told you to eat less?” Crowley asked, his words dripping with sarcasm. 

Aziraphale flushed. “Well, She didn’t tell me Herself, but Gabriel said—”

“Oh, of course.” Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. “We wouldn’t want to upset Gabriel, would we? You know, if you really wanted to impress Gabriel, you’d tell me to get out of your shop and never come back.”  
  
Aziraphale’s mouth dropped open. “Crowley,” he choked out after a moment of shocked silence. “Crowley, you don’t— you don’t really think I would— I could never—”

Crowley grimaced inwardly. No matter how hard he tried, he always seemed to find the exact wrong thing to say, the most cruel, nasty thing he could think of, something guaranteed to hurt. “I know,” he said in a rush. “I know you wouldn’t. Forget I said anything.”  
  
“ _Anything at all,_ ” Crowley thought. “ _Forget we ever met. Forget I exist. You’d be better off that way._ ” 

“I forgive you.” Aziraphale’s gentle voice made Crowley shudder. 

“You always do.” Crowley hurled the words out like an accusation. “It’s how you are. Forgiving, and nice, and kind— and— and—” With Aziraphale smiling softly at him, Crowley couldn’t even begin to find the right words. “—and _good_!” he spat out, throwing out his arms in an inarticulate gesture of frustration. “You’re good, Aziraphale. So what if you’re not a perfect, proper angel like that bastard Gabriel, and you make mistakes sometimes? So what if you have terrible judgement when it comes to friendship, and you like sweets, and you have objectively the worst taste in music? You’re _good._ ” 

  
Crowley had been so wrapped up in his rant that he didn’t even realize that Aziraphale had moved closer until he found himself in the angel’s arms. “And you,” Aziraphale whispered, his voice soft in Crowley’s ear. “Are very, very good as well, even if you try to pretend otherwise.” He pulled away slightly, not letting go of Crowley but moving back just enough to meet his eyes. Aziraphale smiled, and Crowley’s heart beat so fast he thought he was discorporating. “And you’re very dear to me.” Aziraphale leaned forward, and Crowley moved at the exact same time so that they found their lips pressed together. 

Aziraphale took a hesitant little step back. “Was— was that alright?” he asked, searching Crowley’s face for answers. “I wouldn’t want to—”

Crowley cut Aziraphale off with a kiss, deeper than the last one, and threw his arms around the angel possessively, hauling him closer. Aziraphale caressed Crowley’s face with a soft hand, the gesture tender but restrained and ever so slightly questioning. Crowley had no reservations, no supercilious archangel or inscrutable god to impress; he would be every bit as greedy as Aziraphale allowed him to be. 

“ _Speaking of greed. . ._ ”

Crowley pulled back, and gave Aziraphale a moment to catch his breath before speaking. The poor angel was huffing and puffing as if he’d just ran a marathon, and Crowley found it equal parts amusing and endearing. He would be certain to tease Aziraphale about it later. “Now, how about I cut you a piece of that delicious, corpse-fed strawberry shortcake that I certainly did not steal?”  
  
“Cake _does_ sound lovely,” sighed Aziraphale, already savoring the juicy strawberries in his mind. He reached toward the box, then paused for a moment, allowing the hand to fall back against his stomach. “This might sound like a silly question. . .”

“Don’t worry,” said Crowley reassuringly. “I always think you’re silly.” Aziraphale pouted, and Crowley held up his hands in surrender. “I’m only teasing. Go on.” 

“Well. . .” Aziraphale seemed to avoid Crowley’s eyes. “My corporation. . . you don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, do you?” 

It was absolutely a silly question, but the very real nervousness in Aziraphale’s voice kept Crowley from teasing him any further, at least for the moment. “Of course not.” He reached out and touched the angel’s cheek, which was still burning with embarrassment. “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale’s mouth was silent and uncertain, but his eyes shone with love. It was almost more than Crowley could bear, but he refused to let himself look away. Then, all at once, Aziraphale beamed, and his face blossomed into radiant beauty. “It is, and I love it very much! The softness is nice, don’t you think?”   
  
“Very nice.” Crowley’s hands slid down to Aziraphale’s waist, and the angel shivered, smiling. “I just want to. . . squeeze you to death!” Crowley pulled Aziraphale into a crushing embrace. 

  
Aziraphale laughed. “You crafty serpent— that’s been your plan all along, hasn’t it? Throughout all our aeons of friendship. . .” 

“My plan is far more sinister than that,” said Crowley with a wicked grin. “Get a knife for the cake, would you, angel? I don’t need it, but I know _some_ of us are too good to eat with our hands like the vermin we are.” 

“That’s because some of us are civilized, Crowley,” Aziraphale retorted, digging a knife out of a drawer of antique cutlery. Crowley never understood how Aziraphale could find anything in his cluttered labyrinth of a bookshop, but somehow he always managed to locate exactly what he needed. He held the handle of the knife outward. “Do you want to do it, or should I?” 

Crowley took the knife, a playful but dangerous gleam in his eyes. “Allow me.”  
  
Aziraphale paled. “I don’t think I should have given you a knife. I’m starting to think that might not have been a very good idea on my part.” 

Crowley cut the cake into perfect, even slices. “You were saying?” 

Aziraphale let out an exhalation that was somewhere between laughter and a sigh of relief. “I should get some plates.”

  
“No need.” Crowley cut the tip off a slice of cake and slid the knife beneath it, lifting the bite of cake into the air. “Here you go.”

“Crowley!” Aziraphale was appalled by the improper usage of silverware. “I’m not going to eat cake off a knife!”  
  
“Why not?”  


Aziraphale sputtered. “That’s— that’s not what knives are for! You know that!” 

“Don’t you trust me?” Crowley fluttered his eyelashes innocently, but the effect was somewhat diminished by his sunglasses. 

Crowley was joking, and he had expected Aziraphale to respond in kind, but instead the angel simply said, “I do.” 

Crowley almost dropped the knife in surprise, but he managed to hold onto it, and he kept his voice from sounding too nonplussed when he replied, “Open up, then.” 

Aziraphale ate the bite of cake off the knife and laughed. A bit of cream lingered at the edge of his mouth. “If that was part of your sinister plan, I don’t think it worked.”

Joking. Teasing. Crowley was relieved. Aziraphale’s sincerity made him feel breathless and dizzy, as if he was falling through an endless sky, but now they were back on solid ground. Crowley smiled. “Rest assured,” he said, leaning forward to press a quick kiss against the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, licking off the cream. “Everything is going according to plan.”  


**Author's Note:**

> I was honestly considering calling this fic "Plump, Sweet, and Begging For Cream" just to oppress mia, but god herself slapped my hands away from the keyboard before I could type it out
> 
> also im so fucking good at writing summaries, fucking look at that shit, making it seem like this fic is deep and good yall got bamboozled lmao


End file.
